


Peach Trees and Rice Paddies

by OliveYou



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Chinese Mythology & Folklore, Gen, That is all, and yan an, but no promises, disclaimer-i don't know junhui's parents, expect many cameos, i'ma guesstimate this will be about three chapters, jun is a farmer, rice, stan pentagon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-07 21:05:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11067141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OliveYou/pseuds/OliveYou
Summary: Junhui farms, dreams, and shares a few words with the boy under the peach tree.He will become a fisher,says his father, looking out across the terraces.He will become a fisher, and you a farmer. It is in your hands to carry the Wen family traditions, so carry them well.Junhui prays to be enough.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> first of all-  
> any representations of Junhui's family are completely fictional. :)  
> second, I hope the characterization of Jun isn't off. I'm not as familiar with him compared to the other members.  
> third, although I did research, there still may be things wrong with the Chinese culture aspect. if you know something I don't, go ahead and correct me.
> 
> Enjoy!

Junhui is a farmer.

Junhui is a farmer, like his father, his father’s father, and every generation before, up until when the first Wen family moved in and started to plant their seeds. It’s not glamourous or particularly interesting, but it’s a humble, honest line of work that Junhui takes his own sort of pride in.

(most of the time, anyway.)

Junhui rises with the sun, pulling on his overclothes and greeting his father in the middle room, where they share a little talk over rice and meat. It’s just them two, ever since Junhui’s mother left for the city, and his stepbrother for the private boarding school he attends. It’s not horribly lonely, but sometimes he wishes his family could take a little time off from playing with friends and dinner parties to visit the rice paddies.

His stepbrother, for one, seems wholly uninterested in becoming a farmer, far more fascinated by the river and the fishing boats that sail upon it.

_He will become a fisher_ , says his father, looking out across the terraces. _He will become a fisher, and you a farmer. It is in your hands to carry the Wen family traditions, so carry them well._

Junhui prays to be enough.

Once breakfast is over and lunch is packed away for the long day ahead, the two men make their way to the vast web of rice paddies, drainage systems, and scaffolds that have been the Wen family’s home away from home for nearly two centuries. The sun is barely shining, but Junhui knows that today will be hot and muggy, for Chinese summers usually are.

In the later years, of course, Junhui and his father have been branching out into other crops, to sustain themselves and their ‘empire’ of hired workers. It is for this reason that along with the rice paddies, another field has started to flourish—orchards, full of the flowering and the not-yet bloomed, the green and the becoming bare.

This is Junhui’s favorite place to be, his own personal daydreaming spot; eating his lunch between the leaves and boughs of a peach tree, or under the low-hanging olive branches. Here, he can be anything, his heart’s desire—fairy tales and myths, dragons and magic all take a part in his overarching play, his dreamworld.

It’s not lonely, but reality is the unwelcome, abrupt end to his plays. _If only magic was real_ , he’s caught himself thinking; _if only magic was real, then life would a little more interesting._

But for most of his life, Junhui has been content; life is slow, but at least his hands are always busy, and his trees always wait. It’s a living, and he lives it well.

(more like he lives it the best he can—and that should be enough.)

***

“Your brother almost drowned again yesterday,” calls local idiot fisherman Wang Jackson, and Junhui grins.

“Next time, let him,” he jokes, and Jackson flashes his famous puppy smile before departing. Junhui carries on, holding his packet of fish close—the village rascals never pass up an opportunity for free food, and Junhui doesn’t want to put in the effort to catch them if they do.

The market is bustling with activity, fishmongers and old ladies peddling their wares, farmers and children and people of all sorts lining the thin, worn road that leads down to the river—and to the paddies.

“Ah, Young Wen! How are you, how are you?” Greets another shopkeeper from his stall, arranging his spices for the fifth time in a row. “And your mother, how is she doing in the city? City life is luxurious, I hear,” he stops to take a hurried breath, and Junhui takes his chance.

“She’s doing fine, we don’t hear from her much,” he says, “Father and I are doing well, thank you. I have to go!” He dashes off with a quick bow, eager to get back to the terraces and eat his fish in silence—the shopkeep means well, but has a tendency to talk for hours. As Junhui walks down the way, breathing in the scent of spices mixed with fish, somebody calls his name.

“Hey! Hey, Junhui! I’ve got a letter for you!” He spins around to face the voice, and Jieqiong laughs in his face.

“That’s not nice, you know,” Junhui breathes, looking down at the postman’s daughter, who just smiles impishly. “Who taught you manners, a cow? You have to respect me.” He sticks his nose up and adopts a haughty tone to his voice, “I am Wen Junhui, young lady! As you might know, the Wen family spans several generations, and I—”

“Stop it, you’re impossible,” Jieqiong laughs again, shoving his shoulder, causing him to stumble backwards. “Here, just take your letter, it’s from your aunt.”

“…My aunt?” Junhui frowns, taking the letter and ripping it open. “Mother’s sister? Doesn’t she work in the…” His voice trails off as his eyes travel down the lines of characters, face progressively getting more serious.

“…Okay,” he finally says, folding the letter up and patting Jieqiong on the head. “Thanks. I’ll see you later, father’s probably waiting on me. Bye!”

“Be careful!” Jieqiong calls, waving frantically. Junhui doesn’t even turn around, already halfway down the road. “…Be safe.”

***

Once out of sight, Junhui stops to catch his breath, clutching the letter tightly in his palm. He doesn’t want to read it here—it requires a nice, quiet place, and he knows just where to go—but one more peek shouldn’t hurt, right?

_Dear Junhui,_

_It’s your beloved aunt, writing to you after weeks of silence. The palace is especially busy this time of year, and I’m sure you’re busy as well. I won’t waste any more time on the details, though._

_I have a very important errand for you, one that I hope you will undertake. It’s—_

He snaps it shut again, slips it in his pocket, and continues down to the terraces.

As expected, his father has already gone back to work, so Junhui leaves the fish on the scaffolds and makes for the orchards.

The rows of trees seem to welcome him into their glade, their broad canopies shielding him from the hot noonday sun, the grass cool underfoot. A soft summer breeze ruffles his hair as he walks towards his favorite perch, a sturdy peach tree with low hanging branches, just right to climb up on—but.

But instead of the peach tree Junhui expected to find, it’s a child. A boy.

A boy, lying face down on the green ground, and his first thought?

He’s dead.

Or, at least, it certainly looks like it—letter forgotten, Junhui cautiously inches toward the body, making small observations along the way.

One—the boy’s hair is silver, a strange and unnatural color for somebody so young. Not to mention it _shines_ , like some precious object, like a weapon.

Two—the peach tree is _nowhere_ to be seen, like it vanished, leaving the boy in its place. That rules out the possibility of him falling and conking his head on something.

Three—he’s moving.

Junhui scrambles backwards, a cowardly move for someone like him; there’s an aura, a feeling of something otherworldly, something… heavenly.

Four—the boy has beautiful eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate adding chapters, the formatting goes all wonky  
> I also would like to watch voltron. gotta collect more fandoms go go go

“Are you just going to stand there?” Asks the silver-haired, strange-eyed boy, making Junhui blush.

“Are you _real_?” His voice comes out softer and more breathless than he imagined; something about this mysterious boy makes his heart race and his mind go blank.

“Of course not,” the boy says, sarcasm on full display; “I’m just a figment of your imagination, _Wen_ _Junhui_. In two minutes, you’ll wake up and I’ll be gone.”

“I don’t—Wait.” Junhui pauses, narrowing his eyes. “How did you—? Do I know you?”

“No.” The reply is simple, if not a little smug. Junhui is more confused than ever.

“Then…”

Suddenly, it clicks.

“You’re a _stalker!”_ Junhui screams, “That’s _gross!_ Get away from me, weirdo!”

“What? I’m not a weirdo!” The boy protests, scowling. “What in the world would give you _that_ idea!?”

“Well, then what _are_ you?”

“…”

"See!”

“I’m not a stalker. Please stop saying that,” the boy tells him firmly, actually looking a little upset about his case of mistaken identity. “My name is Xu Minghao, by the way. If that makes you feel better.”

…is he pouting? Like, Junhui isn’t just imagining things, is he? He is, he totally is! Suddenly, Junhui doesn’t feel quite so threatened by this not-stalker of a boy standing in front of him.

“And how do you know my name?” He asks, standing up and dusting himself off. Minghao continues to pout, crossing his arms and looking sideways.

“Just forget it.” He replies, refusing to look Junhui in the face. “I’ll leave you alone, i-if that’s what you want.”

“Hey, whoever said I—are you okay?”

The boy doesn’t answer, raising an arm over his face. Junhui can hear sniffling coming from—is he crying? _Really_ , Junhui?

“I—uh, I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he starts awkwardly, and Minghao shakes his head, sobbing quietly. “U-um, do you…? Need some time? Or—”

“I _hate_ this!” Minghao wails out of the blue, making Junhui jump. “I hate, hate, _hate_ this! I’m horrible at first impressions and now you hate _me_ and I want to go _home!_ Except, I _don’t_ , because everyone hates me there too and now I’m gonna be all alone for ever and ever and—”

The sky darkens overhead, and thunder interrupts the Chinese boy’s rant with a loud _crash_.

“A-and…”

Minghao looks fearfully at the sky, then at Junhui. Sky. Junhui. Sky. Junhui.

“…please help me.”

***

Junhui doesn’t know what is happening, past a strange boy throwing himself at the other and begging to go inside, or get away from the rain, or _something_ that doesn’t involve staying out during a storm. From this, he can gather that Minghao is afraid of storms—but his origin is still unknown.

To calm him down, Junhui holes up under one of the many scaffold structures that support the rice paddies, placing Minghao as far away from the entrance as possible.

“So. Would you like to explain what that was all about?” he says finally, after pulling the rags that act as a curtain closed, shutting out the rain.

“Sorry.” Minghao is sullen and pouting, again, wrapped up in Junhui’s old blanket-slash-raincoat in the corner of the room. “I’m stupid, I know. Sorry.”

“Hey, there’s no need for that,” replies Junhui, sitting down next to him. “I didn’t mean to make you cry, but I still don’t know how you knew my name. What’s the deal? You just… _appeared_.”

“I can’t tell you.” The storm rages on, another peal of thunder making the boy flinch while lightning flashes across the sky. “I-It’s complicated and you won’t believe me.”

“Try me,” Junhui says, determined to crack this strange, grumpy boy before the storm ends. “I’m more open than I look, trust me.”

Minghao hesitates; for a moment, the sound of heavy rain falling onto the roof is the only thing breaking the silence. Then, he buries his face into the damp, scratchy blanket and shakes his head.

"I’m n-not so good a-at trusting.” he confesses, voice small and barely louder than the storm outside. He sounds so heartbroken about it, too, that Junhui doesn’t want to press any further for fear of making him cry again. Comforting is hard work, and he’s not exactly a professional at it. His job is farming, not coddling.

Although, maybe…

Junhui eases himself a little closer to the boy, who is currently shaking (mostly from the cold, he hopes) and brings an arm around his shoulders. Slowly. Come _on_ , Wen Junhui, what are you afraid of?

Minghao freezes at the touch, then nervously bites his lip when the older gives him an encouraging smile.

"I don’t like storms,” he says quietly, “because they remind me of my father. It was like he was the thunder. And I didn’t like it, especially when he aimed it at me.”

“You’re safe now,” Junhui replies, trying to sound as confident as possible. Storms aren’t anything new, but Minghao’s enigmatic sentences are making him nervous. It’s like he’s some sort of runaway, or a missing prince from one of his stories.

Minghao cracks a smile, snuggling into Junhui’s blanket (or Junhui? It’s not clear) and sighing almost _happily_.

“Yeah. Thanks to you, Jun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is short... eh...

**Author's Note:**

> :>


End file.
